1844
by coeurgryffondor
Summary: He won't tell Berwald what it was but Lukas needs him, now like he's never needed him before, to feel him, to know he's alive and it was all just a nightmare. It was a nightmare. It wasn't real. Just a bad dream. / SuNor


Names used: **Sweden** (_Berwald/Björn_), **Norway** (_Lukas/Leifr_), **Denmark** (_Christen_), **Finland** (_Timo_), **Iceland** (_Emil_)

Author's note: This took forever to write; it was my go-to angsty/M-rated SuNor to work on when I got bored and I've finally finished it, finally found that ending I wanted. All the SuNor sex!

* * *

><p><strong>1844<strong>

"Fuck me," Lukas announces, throwing himself onto Berwald's lap. "Fuck me now you stupid Svensk." He rubs his groin against his lover to show his already evident want; the Norwegian is well beyond « wound up », moving into dangerously horny territory.

For all the desperation he feels, Berwald's only response is to wrap an arm about Lukas's waist, pulling him in for a hug and resting his head on a shoulder. It's irritating knowing he's still reading over his shoulder, so Lukas grinds down harder, trying to get the larger nation as caught up in the moment as he is.

"Need you now Berwald, now." His hands pull at clothes, loosening the neck tie and undoing the buttons hidden beneath the fabric, fingers playing with the ends of Swedish hair where they lay over the collar of his jacket.

His lover sighs, leaning back in the chair to look at him before taking his face in his hands. Lukas thrusts against him to try and fight whatever is welling up in his chest as sea-green eyes watches him. "What is wrong?" Berwald asks slowly.

"Just," and Lukas swallows, throwing his head back so that his lover cannot see the single tear escape. "Just fuck me, please Berwald."

Strong arms pull him tightly to the large chest, though he does notice how the larger nation is careful not to look at his face. He's not sure if he feels better or worst knowing that Berwald is aware of how close he is to betraying emotions, and has willingly chosen to ignore it. "Tell me what happened."

"No," he says defiantly.

"Lukas-"

"Doesn't matter."

"It does to me."

"Why?"

A hand runs through his hair. "You know why Lukas." Because he loves him.

Desperately Lukas claws at the chest beneath him. "After?" he offers weakly, refusing to meet his lover's gaze. After a moment he senses Berwald's nod before the man shifts, and their lips crash against one another. Berwald is slow, sensual, but Lukas thrusts his tongue into the other's mouth without care. Today is one of those rare days where Lukas doesn't care: he doesn't try to be seductive, doesn't try to hide what he wants, doesn't try to manipulate because his lover will give him what he asks for no matter what. Today Lukas is direct.

The other's tongue meets his, swirling together and exploring the hot space they've created as Berwald's hands run down his sides and over his ass. They grab his hips suddenly and Lukas finds himself being lifted and placed on Berwald's desk. He lays back knowingly, trusting that nothing is in his way. One hand sweeps something from beneath him as his back meets the hard, cool wood; his night robe and chemise have bunched around his thighs as they spread to grant the Northern Lion access.

For a moment Berwald stands over him, taking him in. Lukas moans, his fingers lacing in with his lovers, as that gaze sweeps over him. He hadn't bothered to dress after his nap, seeking out this man immediately, and from the shallow breathing and growing need between them Lukas can tell it was the right move. The large body bends down, coming over him to bring their lips together again in kisses that are sloppy and open and unpracticed, as if they had not done this hundreds of times already.

The mouth falls from his, Berwald's face burying itself in his shoulder, as he grinds down on the exposed body. "Drive me crazy," Berwald mutters, grabbing Lukas's hips and grinding against them once more.

"Fuck me," Lukas repeats and this time Berwald's wrapping arms lift him. The Norwegian locks his legs around Berwald's waist, burying his face in that little bit of chest he'd managed to expose. Lukas closes his eyes as he's carried, his body shaking in both need and terror from what had brought about this sudden need, an image he's trying to push aside. There's a pause as they approach the corridor leading to his room; someone else shuffles.

"My Lord?" a timid voice asks, a female voice. Normally the two nations save their intimate acts for that tower that is Lukas's, with the bedroom Berwald now sleeps in every night with him. For a servant to find them, especially like this, is rare.

And, he imagines, they make quite a sight. Lukas's cream chemise and rich purple robe are hanging from his body in stark contrast to the tailored deep blue suit and gold accents of his lover's that are neat and now only slightly rumpled from the smaller man's hands and thighs. His hair a mess, the Norwegian nation buries his face even further into the folds of fabric as if the servant might not see him. Berwald's grip around him tightens defensively, or perhaps it's possessively.

"What is it?" the powerful man barks.

"N-n-nothing my Lord, I am sorry my Lord, excuse me my Lord." Her stuttering almost reminds Lukas of a small country he used to know, though he cannot remember Berwald's tone being ever so angry with the Finnish boy.

Finishing their way down the corridor and up the stairs, the Swede sits them down on the bed, one hand coming to rest on the side of Lukas's face. "Beloved?" he whispers softly in such contrast to the demand he'd made of the frightened woman. It's heartbreaking and loving and the Norwegian can only move against him to keep his lover from asking what so disturbed him, a question he's not ready for just yet.

"Don't talk," he moans, his hips going back and forth over Berwald's growing erection. Hands come down to guide him as he moves against the lion, Lukas throwing his head back, his neck subjected to a volley of kisses. The grip pushes at his ass, moving Lukas to kneel over Berwald's lap, and the kisses move lower as he moves up. Swedish hands finish pushing off his robe, pulling the chemise up over his head. It's a rare warm winter day like they haven't had in decades; Lukas doesn't shiver as the air hits his body.

"Beloved," the man groans against his chest, his hands running up and down the Norwegian nation's sides, his back, his chest and stomach. It's the name only they call each other, only in private, only when they're in love. And while Berwald lavishes his body Lukas's hands work to free that torso of clothing, finding himself being laid back on the bed as the man stands to remove the rest of his garments. Just watching Swedish hands peel away the jacket, the shirt, the belt, it all sets Lukas on edge, fighting the urge to touch himself while Berwald undresses. He knows his lover is taking him in, knows his lover knows what he's doing to Lukas as he lets his hands palm down his own chest before coming to Swedish pants. There is a grace to how the largest nation undresses that drives the Norwegian wild.

Once naked Berwald stands for a moment, thinking, before his eyes scope the room. It's midday but little sun comes through the window; the fire roaring in the grate provides most of the room's illumination. Lukas can do nothing but continue watching as Berwald suddenly moves to the wooden chest at the end of his bed, opening it and pulling out thick blankets. They're thrown before the fireplace as Lukas crawls across the bed on all four, wanting to better watch the man that makes his heart race like never before. The site of the blankets laying there transports the Norwegian back in time as he kneels on the edge of the bed, Berwald coming back to stand before him.

Instinctively he sits up on his knees again, his arms wrapping around Berwald's neck as they kiss once more with all the ferocity they possessed in their Viking days. The Swede lifts Lukas with ease before laying him down on the blankets before the fireplace. True to his word, he never speaks.

Lukas likes to pleasure Berwald first, rolling them over until he is atop the Swede, kissing down that hard jawline that could have been sculpted from marble. His nails graze over nipples as he kisses lower, his teeth coming out to play as he marks that neck low enough that the scars will be hidden but so that Berwald will still see them, will still feel them. Then his lips move further down as he shifts his whole body, Swedish erection pressing into the Norwegian stomach. His mouth replaces one hand in teasing a nipple, strong legs on either of his sides tensing at the touch. Lukas loves his nipples, loves that something so small could have such a strong hold on Berwald. He licks and rolls the pink nub until it's hard and perfect, fingers coming up to replace his mouth as it moves to the other. This time as he licks and teases Lukas lets a hand slip lower, playing with the light hair that trails down Berwald's stomach until fingers brush something much more delightful.

And his lover's face, normally so poised, is completely open: his cheeks are flushed, his breathing has become panting, and hands come up to push the glasses away, off his face, before they grip the Norwegian's hair. Berwald's head is slightly thrown back as Lukas goes lower, lower, until his nose brushes the standing erection.

What to do, what to do? The question was, how long did he want to tease the man? Did he want to play with him? They've come up with a number of games they both draw pleasure from. Did he want to tease him with any of the tricks he'd learned from pornographic books smuggled out from London for his last birthday gift from Berwald? Lukas has so many options.

Yet the simple fact is that they're naked, laying on plush blankets, a large fire roaring the way it had in days gone by. Lukas settles with the old techniques then, sitting up a little so he could kiss and nip at a thigh while his hands stroked Berwald, fingers running up and down lightly before suddenly giving in to his lover's murmurs before once more being removed. By now the Swede's hands have fallen back to the blankets, gripping them tightly.

Lukas is done waiting when he goes down suddenly, taking in the tip of the Swedish erection and run his tongue around the head. Berwald screams at that so Lukas repeats the action, taking in more and more of the large cock each time. His lover isn't talkative when he's the one being lavished; even when he does speak they're sweet words, loving, for Lukas's benefit. The Norwegian does the best he can sucking, licking, grazing, until something hot and salty fills his mouth and he swallows all he can with the practice that's come from three decades past exclusively in Sweden and centuries more with another demanding man.

He waits for his lover to come down from his high, one of Lukas's fingers lazily teasing Berwald's ass, before the larger man opens his eyes. If anything he looks more lustful now, those sea greens filling with a violent but passionate storm. He sits, slowly, and Lukas leans forward cautiously to kiss him in the sweetest way possible, intrigued by this sudden change.

Hands grab him, flipping them immediately, and Lukas knows he's finally unleashed that inner Viking in Berwald. The man is unforgiving as his lips move down and across and lick and tease and bite. It hurts, as the Swede plays with his nipples, but it's also wonderful and his mind is reeling, unable to decide if he likes this or doesn't. Hands spread his legs as wide as possible, the fire dangerously close to one knee, and Berwald doesn't even tease him before licking his cock, taking it all in expertly.

If Berwald's scream had been loud before, Lukas's is so much more. He cries out, over and over, because he wants to, because Berwald wants him to, because he hasn't been fucked like this in nearly a thousand years and this was what he had wanted to push away the pain, the fear, the memories and the premonitions that had come to him in his dreams. There's pain and there's pleasure and there's that middle ground where they meet wonderfully until Lukas comes and Berwald swallows it all greedily, like he always does.

A heavy weight comes to rest on him while he recovers, Berwald's face hidden from him because of the angle as Swedish lips mark the other side of the Norwegian's neck. The larger nation is already half-hard against his thigh and just picturing that naked body fully erect turns Lukas on. One perk of being immortal was that they were insatiable both in the power they thirsted for and their sex drive.

The thrusts start off small enough as their lips meet in kisses that are sweet, the edge taken off their desperation. But as they grow harder the desperation returns and Berwald shifts just a bit to better rest between Lukas's legs, using his hands planted on either side of the Norwegian head to prop himself up. Berwald likes to watch, likes to see everything; his eyes fall on where their penises brush together as his gyrations take on a more steady pace.

And the Norwegian likes to watch his Swedish love, likes to see how he makes the man come undone. He gasps when a hand snakes up his arm to take one of his, fingers intertwining before Berwald guides the hand down and together they stroke their erections, sensitive skin hypersensitive now. This act alone would have taken away Lukas's fears, calmed his whole being, but he can sense that Berwald still wants more. He is not yet satisfied.

When the Swedish nation pulls back, sitting on his ankles, his eyes rake up and down the thin, pale body beneath him before they grow dark, wanton. Hands grab his hips, rolling him over slightly, and Lukas allows himself to be slapped hard on the ass.

"All fours," a voice, deeper than normal, commands.

The normally strong Norwegian submits without hesitation, baring himself before the Viking. Immediately the larger body presses again his, thick cock rubbing his ass as a chest presses into his back.

"I'm going to fuck you," someone whispers in his ear and that man is no longer Berwald. The huskiness, the deepness, the way it sets Lukas on edge: that was all Björn, wild, savage, untamable. They were the same words he'd whispered in his ear, in that same old tongue, before Björn had taken his virginity in the dead of winter somewhere north hundreds of years earlier.

"Björn," he moans, pressing up into the man. He's no longer as innocent or unknowing as he was that night, though the memories of the events that had transpired in that particular long house before the fire make him flush even as he kneels in this castle before the fire. "Björn."

"Tell me Leifr," the man says in his ears as a finger is inserted, cold and slick and demanding. Lukas wants to protest for the use of his pagan name which he detests because he is Christian now; Berwald still answers to his old name, and Christen does not hate his old one so much either, but Lukas detests it. Only his love for the man inserting a second finger keeps him going, his whole body tensing around Berwald. "Tell me what you want Leifr."

He leans on his forearms, his head forward, hair falling over his face. He's gasping, sweaty, starts pushing back against that hand as the third finger enters and they curl and tease and torture. "You," he gasps. "Want you."

"More Leifr," Berwald demands. "Tell me more."

"Love you!" he chokes as the fingers are removed, trying to calm his body in anticipation for what he knows will inevitably follow. There's a quiet shuffling and he has to fight the urge to turn his head and watch, something hard coming to press against his entrance.

"Louder."

"I love you Björn!" Lukas screams with all he has in him, his hands balling up the blankets as something is thrust into him, hard and thick and long and his. Berwald pulls out, slamming back into him, Swedish hands gripping Norwegian hips too tightly.

This was what Lukas had wanted when he awoke from his nightmare, to push away the awful image with something all-consuming. He had been in a barren land in his dream, dressed as a Norseman yet with all the memories he still possess. Then someone had passed, someone small carrying a torch: Emil. Lukas had followed him, shouting though his brother made no move to indicate he had heard him. He'd followed the light in the dark night until they'd reached the edge of water where Christen and Timo stood as well: the Finn in the finest of clothing with gold jewelry, the Dane in his Viking warrior outfit, knee-deep in the water.

Then Lukas had seen it, his heart breaking: Berwald, peaceful, atop the funeral pyre, eyes closed and arms folded over his sword. It had been a small boat, not worthy of the great Viking, but it had also been an intimate gathering. The three survivors had all looked to Lukas, bewildered, before Timo'd stepped forward, kissing the man once on his lips, then stepping back and starting to recite old prayers, his arms raised. Christen had stepped forward at that, pushing the ship further out into the water in preparation.

That was when Emil had handed Lukas the torch.

There's a sudden pain as Lukas comes back to the moment, Berwald biting at the back of his neck. The Norwegian curls his back to press further into his living, breathing lover until a hand grabs his cock, stroking him hard until Lukas comes, screaming in Old Norse about cremation and Viking rites. Berwald lasts a bit longer until he too comes, yelling the name of an old goddess and together they collapse onto the blankets.

He wills himself not to shed any tears, swallowing air over and over, curling up on himself. Berwald seems to sense this though, pulling his back to him, arms holding him tight. Lukas cries when he's rolled over, lips kissing his, hands pulling at the Swede's hair. "Everything is fine Lukas," Berwald whispers against him, "everything is fine. I am here, I am alive, I love you, everything is fine." In his shouts, Lukas supposes, he must have given away more of his nightmare than he had intended to.

The Swede never asks him to elaborate on the vision.

"We've had a thousand years," Berwald whispers in his ear, "and I fully intend on having another thousand with you." Laying in strong arms Lukas does not doubt a word.


End file.
